


Salt and Coin

by VagrantWriter



Series: Salt and Steel [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubiously Consensual Prostitution, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Touching, Political Alliances, Prostitution, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27913684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagrantWriter/pseuds/VagrantWriter
Summary: Stories about the men's lives Theon Greyjoy would have changed if their paths had ever crossed.Littlefinger sets his unscrupulous eyes on Theon.
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy/Petyr Baelish
Series: Salt and Steel [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1962490
Comments: 30
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is a month late and a dollar short. November ended up being a very busy month for me. On the plus side, this fic is finished and I'll be posting a new chapter every day.

Theon had no idea that Catelyn Stark had taken the Imp prisoner. He didn’t know that Jory Cassel had been killed and Eddard Stark wounded in a confrontation with the whitecloaks. He was simply enjoying the afternoon at the brothel when two guards burst in on him with his pants down. Quite literally. They hauled him off the girl he’d been enjoying the afternoon with, but by then he was well on his way to losing his erection anyway.

“What’s this about?” he demanded as he pulled on his breeches, one guard still holding him by the upper arm. “I haven’t done anything!”

And he hadn’t. Not since they’d arrived in King’s Landing. He’d been on his best behavior, per Lord Stark’s orders. It wasn’t a crime to enjoy the brothels, was it?

He received no answer as he was hauled from the room and escorted back to the Red Keep. Then he was told to wait in his room. Ordered, more like, but Theon had become fairly skilled at hearing unspoken threats.

So he sat on his bed and groused and wondered what sort of trouble he was in now. His first thought was that perhaps his father had rebelled. The possibility _was_ always on his mind. Always there, like a literal sword hanging over his neck. But surely, if that were the case, Lord Stark would simply tell him. He’d send his own men to bring Theon back, at the very least. Theon was still _his_ ward, after all.

He sat and groused and couldn’t even bring himself to finish. He wasn’t hard anymore and he doubted he could work himself up again and he’d spent good coin on that girl, what a waste.

The sky outside his window had begun to turn orangey-pink when there came a knock at his door. Too soft to be the guards, Theon thought. Perhaps Ned come to tell him the bad news? The knock came again, and Theon reluctantly pushed himself from the bed to go answer it.

It was a child. A grubby little street child dressed in a tattered shift. So dirty that Theon couldn’t tell if they were a boy or a girl. They held out a bit of parchment.

Theon took it, and before he could even read it, the child was running off. Twig-thin legs carrying them off and around the corner. Theon was left standing in the doorway, parchment in hand. He glanced down at it.

_The gardens._

_Sunset._

_A friend._

Theon looked up and down the hallway, but of course there was no one about. The child was nowhere to be seen, let alone whoever might have sent the letter. But there were also no guards. If Balon had rebelled and Theon was to lose his head, surely there’d be guards posted, right?

He glanced over his shoulder to the window. The sky was getting darker. Whoever had sent the letter had not intended to give him much time to consider. That was fine. If he truly did have an ally in King’s Landing, he wanted to know. He could at least hear this “friend” out.

Note still in hand, he slipped out of his room.

***

The garden paths were tricky to navigate in the dark, and the note hadn’t specified _where_ in the gardens to meet. Theon found himself stumbling around like an idiot until he caught sight of the soft glow of a lantern in one of the gazebos. He made his way there, swatting away more thorny branches than he’d initially counted on.

“Lord Greyjoy,” a voice greeted him as he approached. He couldn’t make out a face, but he recognized the voice.

“Lord Baelish?”

Lord Baelish lifted the lantern higher, allowing the light to show the planes of his angular face, his signature beard. “You received my note, I see.”

Theon looked around, but it was dark out. If there was anyone hiding out here, he wouldn’t be able to spot them. “You? You’re my ‘friend’?”

Despite frequenting the man’s establishment, he’d only spoken to Littlefinger on a handful of occasions, and never one-on-one. The first day they’d arrived in the capital, the man had taken an interest in what the Greyjoy heir would be doing so far south, and Theon had only managed to mumble something passingly plausible. He’d not mentioned it had been Catelyn Stark’s idea—well, demand, more like.

“I had hoped we might become friends, yes,” Baelish said. The flickering light from the lantern made his grin into a grimace. “I must apologize heartily for your earlier treatment at my establishment. I will, of course, reimburse you for your troubles.”

“That’s what you wanted to speak with me about so urgently?”

“But of course.” He beckoned Theon closer.

Theon stepped into the tiny circle of light, even though he felt his hackles rising. Littlefinger was a little man, the sort who was content with letting other men wield weapons on his behalf. And he was baseborn. And he never said what he meant. Theon didn’t trust him. But he stepped forward anyway.

“You are a valued customer,” Baelish said. “I would see you kept happy.” He bid Theon sit on the bench next to him, and Theon did that as well. Then he set the lantern at his feet, where its light did not quite reach his face. He folded his hands on his lap. “What would make you happy, Lord Greyjoy?”

“I’d like to know what’s going on, for starters.”

“A dispute among Houses, nothing drastic. Lord Stark was wounded in an altercation with Jaime Lannister, but he is recovering.”

“Lord Stark or Jaime Lannister?”

Baelish tilted his head. Theon could not read the expression on his face in the dark. “Lord Stark is playing a dangerous game.”

“Is he?” Theon said evasively. He didn’t need Baelish’s scheming mind to know that.

“I fear that if he continues on this path, it will not end well. And it is not merely his own head he is risking.”

“Worried you’ll lose your best customer?” Theon chuckled. “Your concern is touching, Lord Baelish, but my head is always at risk.”

“Be that as it may, you’re more valuable alive than dead.”

“To _you_ , you mean,” Theon said. “I’m more valuable to _you_.”

Baelish didn’t deny it, of course. “For more than your coin, I assure you.”

He shifted on the bench, closer. Theon shifted away from him, on instinct.

“You have to offer is more valuable than coin.”

Theon laughed. “You must be referring to my world-famous cock.”

“ _Knowledge_ ,” Baelish hissed, ignoring Theon’s crass remark. He leaned in. “What your eyes see, what your ears hear…these are very valuable things indeed. And plenty in King’s Landing would be willing to pay you handsomely. The question is, what will you accept in return for it?”

“What are you offering, Lord Baelish?” Theon snorted. “You want to turn me into one of your spies?” As if he’d ever be reduced to something to womanish, spreading rumors like an old gossip.

“You think it’s beneath you.” It wasn’t a question, but there was an amused note to Baelish’s voice. “You think you are above being bought. But nobody is. You simply haven’t met anyone who’s willing to meet your price. Or you haven’t been brought low enough to accept anyone’ offer.”

Theon sniffed. “I’m not interested in what you’re peddling, Lord Baelish. In fact…” He stood. “I think I should return to my room.”

“As you’ve been ordered to do.” Baelish’s faceless head bobbed, as if it were obvious. Such a small gesture. Theon rankled at it. “In that case, I won’t keep you, Lord Greyjoy. But you should know, my offer is always open.”

Theon paused. “And what offer is that?”

“Whenever and whatever you’re prepared to trade.” Baelish bent and retrieved the lantern. It threw light on his face. Distorting it as it flickered. “I’ll make you a fine offer.”

Despite the lingering heat of the day, a shudder ran down Theon’s back. He turned and began a brisk pace back for his quarters, thinking he would find another brothel to visit from now on. Drowned God knew, Lord Baelish wasn’t the only whoremonger in King’s Landing.

***

Three days later, Ned Stark had been arrested, most of his Household in King’s Landing executed, and Theon headed for Lord Baelish’s brothel.


	2. Chapter 2

“Do you think they would have murdered you?”

“Murder? No.” Theon snorted in derision. “When it’s the king ordering it, they just call it execution.”

Baelish hummed in assent and offered Theon a cup. Theon hadn’t seen him pour anything, but he hadn’t really been paying attention. Not to Baelish or the lavish trappings of his solar. Baelish might even have tried to offer him the cup earlier; Theon couldn’t say. He took it this time, though, and took a long pull. It was a dry Dornish wine, red, bitter. He took another drink.

“They executed Vayon Poole right in front of me,” he muttered. “Ned’s closest man. Cut down like a common criminal.” He took a slightly smaller drink, though he really wanted to down it all. “Of course they would have killed me.”

“But you’re not one of Lord Stark’s House.” Baelish moved with the grace and intent of a prowling cat as he took a seat across from Theon. “You’re a hostage. A political prisoner.”

Theon winced. Under different circumstances, perhaps he would have appreciated Baelish’s forthrightness. Especially since the man was so seldom forthright. Or maybe Theon had been thinking of himself as Ned Stark’s “ward” for too long. But Baelish was right. Hostage. Prisoner. It’s what he’d always been.

“If Cersei kills you,” Baelish continued, “she will risk war with the Iron Islands. She’s already risking war with the North by arresting Lord Stark.”

Theon turned the cup in his hands, felt the studs along the outside. “I need to get word to Robb.”

He did not like the way Baelish smiled at that, like a cat. As if Theon had just given away important information. “I’m sure word will reach him soon enough.”

“He needs to hear it from me. Please, can you help me send a letter?”

“Cersei will not be pleased if she finds out.” Baelish shifted, crossed one knee over the other. “I’d rather not end up… _executed_.”

Theon tilted his head back and drained what wine was left in the cup. It burned on the way down. He needed the drink to clear his head, calm his trembling hands. Shit, his hands _were_ trembling, weren’t they? It was just…everything had happened so fast. The whitecloaks had _cut down_ Vayon Poole. He hadn’t even had a chance to draw his sword to defend himself. Theon had felt like a child again, the night the mainlanders had stormed Pyke. In that instant he’d known, _known_ , they would kill him too. And he’d…fled.

Like a child.

Like a coward.

His face burned with shame, but truly, what was he to do? Take up his sword? Die defending the House that had held him prisoner for ten years? What songs would they sing of him then, when word of his death reached Pyke?

Pyke.

“I need to tell my father what has happened. He…he’ll…” Do what? Send someone for him? He hadn’t in the ten years Theon had been at Winterfell.

The Islands should know, though. Political machinations were underway. Houses were being deposed. His own House should know.

“Perhaps you should return to the Keep,” Baelish said. Theon had forgotten he was there. “The Greyjoys are no friends of the Starks. It might serve you.”

“The Greyjoys are no friends of anyone,” Theon muttered. “Least of all the Lannisters. I’m trapped in this wretched city with no allies.” He peered down into his empty cup. There was a single bead of wine at the bottom. That last little bit he could never manage to get. He wished Robb was here.

“I could be an ally.”

Theon looked up. As unnerving as Baelish’s featureless face had been in the dark, he preferred it to actually seeing the expressions that flitted across it in the daylight.

“You are, of course, welcome to stay,” Baelish said, “but I suspect the guards will think to look for you here eventually. You are a well-known patron of my establishment, after all. Well.. _this_ one, at least.”

“ _This_ one?”

“I own several. Some that can’t be traced to me. I could hide you there, if you feel your life is truly in danger.”

“A whorehouse?” Theon guffawed. “Planning to put me to work as a whore?”

“I assure you, I would n—”

“You know,” Theon interrupted, “I’m sure there are plenty of women in this city who would pay good coin for my cock.”

Baelish lifted one eyebrow. He had remarkably elegant eyebrows, Theon thought, ludicrously. He was a bit punchy from the wine and the flight from the Red Keep. He should stop talking.

“I’ll repay you for your kindness by letting you rent out my cock,” he giggled. “You won’t regret it, Lord Baelish. It’ll pay for my board and then some.”

Baelish smiled like a cat. “For now, I will call one of my girls and have you shown to the safe house. We can work out how you plan to repay me later, Lord Greyjoy.”

***

“What _are_ you doing in King’s Landing, Lord Greyjoy?” Ros asked as they slipped through another narrow alleyway.

“Lady Stark’s idea,” Theon answered evasively. “With her husband’s bastard going to the Wall, I guess she saw a chance to be rid of me as well. Bring Robb out of our influence and back under hers.”

“Mmm,” Ros hummed noncommittally. She put out a hand to stay him and peeked out around the corner to check for patrolling whitecloaks. In the dusk, her profile was much as Theon remembered it from back at Winterfell. Though her red hair was not so vibrant down here, where everything was colorful and bright. At Winterfell, she’d been a pop of color amongst all the drabness—the starkness, if you will—but in King’s Landing she blended in with everything else. A shame, really. “You were very close with the oldest Stark boy, weren’t you? I remember the two of you were always together. When you weren’t fucking me, of course.”

“How do you like it here?” Theon asked, to change the subject “Ever get homesick for my cock?”

She snorted. “I have clients with better cocks now. And deeper purses.” She cocked her head. “Come on. This way.”

They emerged onto a wider street, steep and sloping downward toward the harbor.

Theon followed after her. “You don’t miss me at all?”

“Oh yes, our scintillating conversations.”

“Scintillating. Big word for a Northern girl like yourself.”

She briefly swung her head around and gave him a cheeky smile. God, he loved her smile.

“I’ve learned quite a few things.”

“Does Baelish…?” Theon paused, not sure what he wanted to ask. “Does he treat you well?”

She paused too, and Theon thought her saw some uncertainty on her face. “Well enough,” she answered. “Better than any baud or pimp in Winter Town. Pay’s much better too. Ah, here we are,” she crowed, before he could ask any more questions. She gestured to one of the dusty little two-story buildings along the row overlooking the docks.

Of course Baelish would have a whorehouse down by the docks.

“You’ll be right at home around all these ships, I imagine,” she said with an earnest smile. And Theon did love her smile, but his stomach churned for some reason he couldn’t name.

They ducked inside and Theon drew back his hood. It was certainly a shabbier establishment than the whorehouse by the palace. Still nicer than some he’d visited up North. A man at the counter greeted them. “Ah, Ros, pleasure to see you again. Regular room?”

“I’m not here to work, Sweet Lips. I’m here for him.” She jerked her thumb at Theon. “Littlefinger wants him hidden.”

The man looked Theon up and down, assessing. “I see.” Theon’s skin prickled. “Well, he can have one of the backrooms.”

“Nobody’s to know he’s here. Littlefinger will be checking in on him personally.”

“Yes, yes, I understand.” Sweet Lips waved his hand dismissively. “I’ll take care of it, my dear. This isn’t my first time.”

Theon was jerked around as Ros grabbed hold of his cloak, pulling him close to her. “I have to go now, Theon, but I want you to watch yourself, do you understand? The things I’ve learned here…this is not a safe city. Not safe at all.”

“I’ve learned that myself,” he admitted.

She nodded, but her eyes remained earnest. “Take care.” She stood up on her tiptoes and gave him a soft peck on the cheek.

“Hey now,” Sweet Lips called, with no real anger in his voice, “save it for the customers.”

Ros let go of Theon and took a few steps back. Their eyes met for a long moment, and it seemed there was more she wanted to say. Theon had a great deal he wanted to say to her. But then she turned and vanished out the door.

“Well then,” Sweet Lips said, standing from his seat with a groan. He was a large man, and older. Not one of the whores, Theon surmised. “Let’s get you settled then, shall we?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags are for Littlefinger being a creep in this chapter. So...business as usual, then.

“There was some inquiry about you,” Littlefinger said, toying idly with the beaded curtain that separated Theon’s room from the rest of the whorehouse. His only meager means of privacy. “Some whitecloaks made a show of searching my main establishment, but I have the distinct feeling Cersei is more interested in finding the Stark girl.”

Theon looked up from lacing his boots. “Sansa?”

Littlefinger smiled like a cat. “Arya.”

“Arya’s gone?”

“She disappeared during the arrests. Much like yourself.” Littlefinger let the beads fall from his fingers and entered the room. “I don’t suppose you could offer any insight into where she might be hiding.”

Theon shrugged dispassionately. “Arya Underfoot,” he said. “What everyone called her. She could be anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms by now.”

Littlefinger drew his lips together tightly. A smile in the loosest sense of the word.

“Any word from Robb?” Theon asked. The silence was uncomfortable and left his skin prickling the same way as when Sweet Lips looked at him too long.

Littlefinger plopped himself down on a stool next to the reclining sofa that served as Theon’s bed these days. Well, plop was not the right word. Littlefinger was nothing if not graceful. He gently lowered himself down and sat with his hands clasped in his lap. “Word is that he’s called his banners.”

Theon felt a swell of hope. _He’s coming for me then._

_No, he’s coming for Ned._

_But I’m here too._

“It looks like Cersei will have her war anyway,” he said, pulling his laces tight and sitting up. The sofa was so overstuffed, it had barely any give to it as he shifted his weight. “I hope Robb burns the Red Keep with her and her wretched brat inside.”

Littlefinger’s eyes crinkled at the corner. “How are you finding your accommodations, Lord Greyjoy?”

Theon blinked at the sudden shift in topic. He looked around his meager room. “They’re not ideal.”

“Oh, are you uncomfortable?”

“I left all my belongings at the Red Keep when I fled—my clothes, my coin, my—” He cut himself off with a frustrated sigh. “It’s terribly noisy at night, and drafty. There are people coming and going at all hours, and only some bead strands separating my room from everything. And your man, Sweet Lips…I don’t like him. I don’t like the way he looks at me or talks to me. You’d think he’d know to be more respectful for someone above his station.”

“I will speak with him about it,” Littlefinger said. Paused. Then, as if some thought had just struck him, “Sweet Lips tells me you’ve been…shall we say, trying to have a taste of the merchandise.”

Theon snorted. “You mean having some fun with the girls?”

“They are working, Lord Greyjoy.” There was just a slight edge to Littlefinger’s voice now. “You are not a customer, paying or otherwise.”

“I don’t see the harm. They turned me down anyway.”

“Of course they did, because they understand who they work for, and how business works.” He shifted his shoulders, and Theon was reminded of a cat settling in to a favorite spot. “Nothing is for free, Lord Greyjoy.”

“Don’t I already know that?” Theon snorted. Gold Price, Iron Price, everyone paid a price. He’d learned that as a boy, when his brothers had been killed and he’d been ripped away from his home like a sapling to be re-rooted. Littlefinger just didn’t appreciate the _tedium_ of it, waiting for death to come find you. Empty hours were much longer. “I needed something to pass the time,” he said, flopping on his back. The sofa held firm. “I’m bored.”

“What you are,” Littlefinger said, “is a liability.”

Theon lifted his head.

“Cersei might not have her full attention focused on you, but I _am_ taking a rather large risk hiding you from her eyes.” Littlefinger leaned forward slightly. “And now I hear you are attempting to steal from my business. One might even call you ungrateful.”

“Oh no, Lord Baelish. I am—I _am_ grateful, truly.”

“And yet here you are, taking advantage of my generosity.”

Theon sat up. So, that was Littlefinger’s game. He was calling Theon’s tab.

“I _have_ coin. You know that. I’m good for it.”

“It’s quite alright, Lord Greyjoy, I am a patient man. However…” Littlefinger held out his palms, indicating empty hands. “If I recall correctly, your coin is controlled by Eddard Stark, who is currently residing in a cell beneath the Red Keep. I wonder who controls your coin now.”

Theon looked away. There were no windows in his little backroom. It was stuffy and smelled of the perfume every whore had ever worn while being fucked in this room. It was already unbearably hot in King’s Landing. Sweat began to form under Theon’s collar.

“My father will pay for me.”

Littlefinger smiled thinly. “Not Robb?”

“I—I can put in a good word for you, with Robb. I can—” Theon sat up straighter, suddenly realizing what Littlefinger really wanted. No Gold Price or Iron Price, but a sort of Bargaining Price. Something he could use to crawl his way to the top. “What would you prefer, Lord Baelish? Information about Robb?”

He felt a pinch in his stomach.

Littlefinger just smiled for another moment or two. Theon was uncomfortably aware of someone moaning in the room next door.

“You know Robb Stark better than anyone else in King’s Landing,” Littlefinger finally said. “Perhaps even better than the sister they have in custody.”

Theon looked at the floor.

He felt, and saw out of the corner of his eye, Littlefinger shift even closer. “Maybe you could offer some insight into your dear friend’s thoughts and actions.”

“Robb and I aren’t friends,” he protested. “I’m afraid I would be of little use to you, Lord Baelish.”

“I see. That’s unfortunate.”

Theon started when he felt cold fingers against his chin, lifting his head and turning his gaze back towards Littlefinger. There was no real force to it, just a gentle hand guiding him where it wanted him to go. He found Littlefinger closer than he’d remembered, barely a hand’s breadth separating their faces. And Littlefinger was still smiling.

“You’re a handsome boy, Theon.”

Theon shuddered at his name on the man’s lips.

“You could make use of your looks.”

Theon breathed in through his nose, because he was terrified to open his mouth. Littlefinger’s hand was still on his chin. It suddenly struck Theon that the man had no smell to him. Not in the garden or in his solar or even here in this overripe backroom. He took on the smell of wherever he was, but he himself had none of his own.

“I…” Theon began. He acutely felt Littleginer’s hand against his jaw. A slight pressure. Not…not keeping his mouth shut, as such, but almost…as if he could bend the words that came out. Like a puppet master. “Lord Baelish…?”

“Many people will let their guard down around a pretty face.” Littlefinger’s eyes slid up and down Theon, taking in more than just his face. “I do have a proposition for you, if you’re interested.”

“What…sort of proposition?”

Littlefinger smiled, and Theon shuddered, despite the sweat forming under his collar.

“There is a certain merchant who deals in…unsavory items, shall we say? Items that I, as Master of Coin, really should know more about. It just so happens that his wife is an occasional patron at my establishments, and she has a rather loose tongue when it comes to handsome young men.”

Theon let out a derisive laugh. Which came out as a nervous chuckle. “Still trying to make me one of your spies, Lord Baelish?”

“You could be good at it.” Littlefinger withdrew his hand and sat back on his stool. “From what I gather…her husband is not very adept at pleasing her in bed. She’d be grateful, indeed, for some…attention. In the past I’ve had Olyvar deal with her, but he is not partial to women.”

“You want me to fuck information out of this woman?” Theon managed a genuine laugh at that.

“A rather crude way of putting it.” Littlefinger didn’t look scandalized in the least. “Of course, I understand if you turn my proposition down. After all, a highborn lord like yourself, acting as a common prostitute, ‘rented out’ in your own words…”

The heat under Theon’s collar crept up his neck. It sounded so filthy on Littlefinger’s lips.

“But a boy like you…I imagine all you’d need to do is smile and the merchant’s wife would be spilling all her husband’s secrets to you.”

Theon nodded absently. “You…you’re truly asking if I…?”

“A proposition,” Littlefinger corrected him. “An opportunity to repay me for my generosity. Nothing more.”

Theon dug his teeth into his lip. He’d been joking in Littlefinger’s solar, about becoming one of the man’s whores. A half-drunken half-jape, that was all. But…Littlefinger wanted information. More than anything else, it was what he traded in. If Theon could get information for him—preferably not his own—he could make himself valuable. Worth keeping around. Worth hiding.

And, well…he _was_ good at fucking. How novel would it be to have coin coming _to_ his hand, instead of _out_ , for a good romp? Imagine, not only _asked_ , but _paid_ to spend an evening in bed with beautiful woman. Yes, the more he thought about it, the more his initial reservation faded.

Besides, Littlefinger made it sound so…filthy. Another little shudder ran up his back.

“I accept,” he said, plastering on his best grin. The grin he planned to used to win over the merchant’s wife. “After all, it would be a crime to let my world-famous cock go to waste, now, wouldn’t it?”


	4. Chapter 4

“How do I look?”

Petyr smiled. “Like a proper whore.”

Theon’s face flushed. 

Jon had once muttered—under his breath, when he’d thought Theon wasn’t listening—that he dressed like a prostitute. What would the bastard think if he saw Theon now? Olyvar’s clothing sat well on Theon’s frame, though Petyr said Olyvar was taller than Theon and it showed in the looser fit in the shoulders. But that just allowed the shirt to open wider, expose more of his bare chest. The fabric was so sheer and sleek, it truly felt like it would slide off with too much motion. And so Theon stood still, watching himself in the mirror. That way, he could also watch Petyr without turning his head, watching as the man skulked around behind him.

“Do I look fuckable?” Theon teased.

“Unquestionably,” Petyr responded, though he seemed distracted. His hands were busy searching through the many drawers that lined the wall. “You only need one more thing…ah.” He let out a satisfied sigh, and Theon watched the reflection in the mirror as Petyr straightened up, pulling something from the drawer as he did. He approached, holding it out, but Theon couldn’t determine what it was. Not until Petyr lifted his arms over Theon’s head and pulled the item, gently, to Theon’s throat, where it sat cold and heavy.

It was a golden necklace. A collar, more like. Solid. It drew the eye midway between his chest and face.

Petyr clasped it in back to keep it in place. His hands were warm where they brushed Theon’s skin, a contrast to the cold metal. “There,” he breathed, so close that Theon could feel it on the shell of his ear. “All good whores should be decorated in gold, don’t you think?”

Theon nodded. None of the whores in the North had ever worn gold.

Petyr’s reflection in the mirror smiled. “If you _were_ one of my whores, I would invest in some proper clothes for you. Something more…form-fitting, perhaps…” Fingers brushed against Theon’s side. “Around the waist. You’re a man of taste, Lord Greyjoy. What color flatters you the best?”

“Gold,” he answered, unthinking. His heart fluttered when Petyr smiled again.

“A bit expected,” Petyr said, voice low and husky, “but it suits you.”

Theon heard his blood rushing in his ears. He didn’t dare even breathe as Petyr reached up and pulled a lock of his hair out of place, positioning it just so on his forehead. Perfectly controlled dishevelment.

“Lord Baelish.”

Theon pulled his eyes away from Petyr to Sweet Lips, standing in the doorway.

“Lady Amorra is here.”

“Tell her her boy will see her in a moment.”

Her boy.

Theon swallowed. God, he’d not been this nervous since his first time. “You don’t think she’ll recognize me, do you?”

“Lady Amorra is Tyroshi,” Petyr said, and the huskiness of his voice was gone. In a flash, the man was all business again. “I doubt she’d recognize the name Greyjoy if she heard it, let alone your face. But just in case, your name is Wyl.”

“Wyl,” Theon repeated.

“Wyl Waters.”

“I’m a bastard?”

“Would you rather be a lord?” Petyr asked bluntly.

“No, it’s—it’s fine,” Theon said, though his face burned. Jon truly would love seeing this moment. “I’m ready.”

Petyr stepped back and gave Theon one more head-to-toe look. The same look that prickled his skin. “You’ll do just fine,” he said. “Keep her happy, keep her talking, and you’ll get what you want from her.”

“What _you_ want from her,” Theon corrected.

Petyr smiled. “What _I_ want is what _you_ want, Lord Greyjoy. That’s your first lesson in being one of my spies.”

***

The room smelled of sex and incense. Through the open window, the sounds of the docks drifted in—bells and yelling. Theon lay on the mattress, and just lying there felt like swimming, the air was so thick. He couldn’t find the energy to move, even when he heard the door open.

“Lady Amorra was very pleased with your services,” Petyr’s voice informed him, footsteps muffled against the carpeted floor. The door clicked closed behind him.

Theon snorted, then propped himself up on his elbows. He was sweaty and sticky and, quite frankly, fucked out. For an older woman, Lady Amorra certainly had stamina. “You were right. She does talk a lot. Complains, more like. About her husband, mostly. And his business.” He gave Petyr his best smirk. “I think you’ll be very pleased with what I heard, Lord Baelish.”

Petyr smirked back. “I shall enjoy hearing what you heard. But for now, you can rest a bit.” He sat on the edge of the bed and handed Theon a long-stemmed pipe.

Theon took it, uncertainly.

“A Dornish blend,” Petyr explained. “To commemorate a job well done.”

Theon took a long draw from the end of the pipe. The smoke burned his throat, the roof of his mouth. The back of his eyes.

“Hold it,” Petyr instructed.

But Theon coughed and it came rushing out. His eyes watered.

“No, hold it in your lungs. Like this.” Petyr took the pipe and put it to his lips. The bowl flared ember-red, and Petyr’s cheeks hollowed as he drew in a deep breath. He held it for a second, two, three, then pursed his lips and let the smoke out in a steady stream. Then he handed the pipe back to Theon.

Theon took it and tried again. It still burned, but he tried to do as he’d been shown.

Petyr watched him with unveiled amusement. “How did you find the work?”

Theon let out another choking breath. He was feeling a bit lightheaded. “It was…”

He thought of Lady Amorra. A woman past her prime, many would say, though she could not be terribly older than Lady Stark. No comely maiden, for certain, but she’d walked in with an air of confidence. Her first words to him had been, “My, aren’t you a pretty one?” And in that instant, Theon had felt like the green boy. She’d ridden him so hard that he could still feel her thighs wrapped around him, the taste of her on his tongue.

“I enjoyed it,” he admitted to Petyr, “more than I thought I would, to be honest.”

Petyr smiled at him and it was almost, _almost_ , genuine. “Perhaps this is your calling, Lord Greyjoy,” he mused, “to be a spy-whore.”

Theon’s face burned. He took another pull from the pipe. He thought he might be getting better at it.

“I jest,” Petyr said. “You did well today, Theon. I will consider your debt to me paid.”

“I didn’t say no…” Theon objected, sitting up straight.

Petyr quirked an eyebrow at him.

Theon looked down at the pipe. At the thin trail of smoke working its way out of the bowl. “It’s better than sitting on my ass all day with nothing to do.”

The mattress dipped as Petyr sidled closer. The bed Theon had fucked Lady Amorra on was nicer than the one he slept on. Soft. Giving. Petyr was close to him now as he plucked the pipe from Theon’s fingers, as delicately as he did everything else. “I could train you, if you wanted,” he said. “Thoroughly train you. As a spy, as a whore.”

Theon shivered.

“But it’s not for those with soft stomachs.” He took a pull from the pipe himself, held it. Let it out through his nose. All so delicately. “You know, when I first laid eyes on you, I thought to myself you had the makings of a good whore.”

Theon knew he should not be flattered by that.

“But it’s up to you, of course,” Petyr went on, not even looking at him now. But somewhere else. “I have other clients in mind, for whom you would be the perfect fit. I have use for you.”

Theon looked to where Petyr was looking, but it was just an empty corner. He couldn’t see what Petyr saw.

“I will think on it, Lord Baelish,” he said, pulling Olyvar’s shirt tighter to cover his bare chest. His skin was suddenly pebbled with goosebumps.

“Petyr, please.” Petyr stood, taking the pipe with him. “Ah, I almost forgot.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a coin, which he set on the mattress.

Theon picked it up, found it warm in his hand. “What’s this?”

Petyr smiled. “Why, your fee, of course, Lord Greyjoy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have one more chapter to add to this. Let me know if that's something you'd like to see.


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